


Not A Fairytale

by 2am_Writing_Addict



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood, Bodyswap, Canon Era, Character Death, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sad Ending, Soulmate Bodyswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_Writing_Addict/pseuds/2am_Writing_Addict
Summary: In a world where soulmates are far more than a fairytale, Race is blessed with have two souldates. On each date, he will swap places with his soulmate for just one hour... except his first date goes by without a swap. After all, not all fairytales are easy to live and not all stories as fairytales at all.
Relationships: (Minor), (mentioned) - Relationship, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins/Original Male Character
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Not A Fairytale

————13th of February, 1898————  
Race stared at the clock, caught between wishing for midnight and wanting time to stop completely. At exactly midnight, he would swap bodies with his soulmate for just one hour. If he couldn’t figure out who they were in that time, he would never manage to find them.

He glanced down at his wrist, the two dates were printed clear and bold across his skin and, despite his father kicking him out for having two dates rather than one, he had always loved them. They were a promise that one day he would meet the people he was destined to be with.

23:57

“Ya ready?”

Race shook his head at Albert’s words; he was terrified he wouldn’t be everything they wanted him to be.

“Just make sure ya find out where they live,” Jack spoke up from his seat on the bunk across from him.

23:58

“I know, I know.” Race rolled his eyes as he laughed at his friend’s mothering. “Where they live is the most important, then their name or what they look like. Then everythin’ else.”

“‘M just tryin’ ta ‘elp.” Jack backed up with his hands in the air.

23:59

“We all know ya just want ta be the godfather.” Albert teased, jumping back as both Jack and Race swatted at him.

Race glanced back at the clock and took a deep breath.

February 14th 1898  
00:00

Nothing happened.

00:01

The clock stared tauntingly back at him.

“Maybe the clock ain’t right?” Albert suggested quietly.

00:02

Jack shook his head.

“I ‘ad it checked. It’s right ta the minute.”

00:03

Race couldn’t bear the silence and pitying looks anymore. Leaping to his feet, he bolted from the room.

————

The wind cut through his clothing, chilling him to his core as he sprinted blindly down the Manhattan streets. His shoes pounded against the pavements, drumming a perfect beat until he could only hear the taunting tic of the clock and he stopped, collapsing to the floor.

His head dropped to the side but he didn’t have to strength to turn it so he lay there, staring at the numbers on his wrist. 14/02/1898 stared back at him, 15/11/1899 just under it.

He wanted to rip them off.

He could barely move now but he wanted to rip them off, to never have to see them again. Or even better, go back to the day he got them and destroy them before his father ever saw them because he could cope with having no family if it meant getting to meet his soulmates but getting neither soulmates or a family? That wasn’t fair.

He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to remember.

In the bitter winter air, he drifted away.

————

“Get up!” The yell cracked through his ears as he jerked awake. “Stand when I talk ta ya!”

A hand gripped his hair, dragging him sideways. He hit the floor then the hand yanked, tossing him across the room. Pain splintered through his side as he yelled out.

“‘M sorry! ‘m sorry!”

His ribs screamed as he gasped for breath.

He was sobbing, he felt it in his ribs, but he couldn’t stop.

There was a scoff.

“Lemme guess, ya a ‘Hattan kid.”

“Yes,” he forced the word out; he didn’t want to know what would happen if he didn’t.

“I guess Kelly must ‘ave forgotten ta tell ya.” The hand was back, dragging his from the floor to stare into the bloodshot eyes. “Brooklyn’s close ta visitors.”

“‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry, I’ll leave and ya don’t got ta see me again.”

His legs tangled under him as he hit the floor.

“Spot. Lake. Take ‘im ta ‘Hattan. Ya betta’ be an hour.” The boy snapped the order and barely a second later, hands gripped his arms and dragged him from the room.

————

His knees bummed and cracked against the pavement but he bit his lip to mask his pain; it was better to get to Manhattan, no matter how painful, rather than get dumped in a Brooklyn alleyway.

“We bein’ followed?”

There was no response expect for a sudden change in path. A door creaked and slammed as arms lifted his legs and he was carried up a set of stairs. A second door creaked and slammed as he was laid down on a thick blanket, the fabric course but comforting under his cheek.

A quiet but gentle voice spoke.

“We’s real sorry ‘bout that.”

He cracked his eyes open, squinting through the pain at the two figures in front of him. The first figure knelt next to him, hands halted halfway to touching him. He beamed at him, his almost black eyes lighting up with joy. He spun to face the other figure, his fluffy almost black hair flicking as he turned. The other figure smiled, calm and collected as he placed a steadying hand on the other boy’s shoulder. With not-overly short and therefore fairly average brown hair, some would assume that the rest of him was just as “fairly average” yet, as the dim light from the street hit his eyes, they glowed amber, shining with streaks of gold.

In short, they were both utterly stunning and Race marvelled at them. Of the first, it was the bubbly joy, the softness of him, that drew him in. Of the second, it was the calm that lured him in, the aura of safety he held.

“What’s ya name?” The first boy asked.

“Racetrack.” Race managed to stammer out. “Race fa short.”

“Nice ta meet ya, Race. ‘M Spot.”

“And ‘m Lake.”

Race nodded slowly, pushing himself into a sit position and taking in the dusty room around him.

“Where are we?”

“An old hidin’ place of ours, ain’t no one used it fa years.” Lake answered. “We brought ya ‘ere ‘cause we need ta talk with ya.”

“Ok?”

“One of the dock workers found ya a block from the lodgin’ ‘ouse, thought ya were one of us.” Spot began, gesturing as he spoke.

“Ghost wasn’t too ‘appy ‘bout it but he said ya could stay ‘til ya woke up.” Lake continued.

“So what changed?” Race broke in; he certainly hadn’t been left to wake up on his own.

The nervous glance they sent each other set Race on the edge. After an agonising minute, Lake spoke.

“He saw ya souldates.”

Race clamped his hand over his wrist, panic shooting through him. What if he had misunderstood the orders Ghost had given them. There were people out there who hated people like him, he was lucky his father had only thrown him out because not everyone got away so lightly.

“Hey, we ain’t gonna ‘arm ya.”

“We’s just like ya, see?”

Race stared at Spot’s outstretched wrist. The dates he knew so well stared back at him.

“Ya dates...”

“Could we see yours?”

Something in Lake’s calm voice made him stretch out his arm, revealing the dates on his wrist.

“They’re the same.” Spot beamed at him and made Race not want to say his next words.

“That don’t mean nothin’. Lotsa people ‘ave the same date.”

“There ain’t many people with two dates and ta get two the same as someone else, that ain’t likely.”

Race bite at his lip, trying to avoid their hopeful expression. He wanted them to be right so badly that he didn’t know if he could cope if they weren’t.

“‘Ow ‘bout this?” Race turned his attention back to Lake. “Ya next date is ‘bout a year and a ‘alf away. Date us ‘til then and if ya find ya soulmate on ya next date, ya can go get ‘em. If ya swap with one of us, even betta’.”

“But what if ya find ya other soulmate?”

“Well if we get on, we’ll be a four.” Spot replied easily, Lake nodding in agreement. “Non-soulmates stay together all the time.”

So many parts of him were screaming that it was a bad idea, that there were too many ways that he could end up hurt, but he pushed them aside.

“Ok,” he smiled. “Ok! I’d love ta date yous.”

“Can I hug ya?” Spot asked, almost vibrating with excitement.

Race nodded and then Spot was almost on top of him, his arms around Race’s neck. A quiet chuckle came from behind Spot and Lake settled next to Race, wrapping his arms around them both. Race let his eyes slip shut, relishing the moment.

————

Nearly an hour after they had first left the Brooklyn lodging house, they finally made it to the Manhattan lodging house.

“When ya come ta Brooklyn, only go ta the docks. Ghost ‘ates ‘em so he ain’t gonna catch ya there.”

Race nodded, not releasing his hold of Lake’s or Spot’s hands.

“Ghost ain’t gonna be too angry at ya fa ‘ow long ya ‘ave been gone, will he?”

They both shook their heads as Spot explained.

“He told us ta be longer than an hour and we were.”

“Why?”

“Probably tryin’ ta get us ta freeze.”

The nonchalance in Spot’s voice made Race pull them both into a hug.

“Ya don’t gotta stay there. Come ta ‘Hattan.” He begged, tears springing into his eyes.

“He won’t let us, said he’ll kill us if we try. ‘M sorry Race.” Lakes held them close as Race bit back a sob.

“Stay safe, please.”

Spot pressed a kiss against his cheek.

“We will.”

They held each other for a moment more before untangling themselves.

“Race!” Jack’s voice rung out through the silent streets.

“That’s Jack, I betta’ go. See ya after sellin’ tomorrow.”

“See ya tomorrow.”

And with that, they sprinted off down the Manhattan streets on their way back to Brooklyn. Race watched until he couldn’t see them anymore.

“Race?” A tap on his shoulder sent him spinning round, staring at Jack with wide eyes. “Who were they?”

“Just two guys I know.” He didn’t like lying to Jack but he didn’t want to say they are his soulmates only to have to tell everyone that they aren’t.

Jack nodded, clearly not believing him but he didn’t push.

“Come on, ya gotta get ta bed if ya are gonna make it up tomorrow.”

Race let a hand on his shoulder guide him into the lodging house.

————

Race stayed true to his word and met Spot and Lake by the docks. Then he met them again a few days later. And again. And again. And again. And again. By the end of summer, he had settled into a routine which let him meet up with them every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday.

Sundays were his favourite because there was no afternoon paper at all. Spot and Lake would meet him at his selling spot and they would set off across the city. They would always explore somewhere new and different: staring into a candy shop window or laughing as they walked through tree filled parks or sprinting away from some angry street kid until they were safely back in Brooklyn and could collapse onto the docks to watch the sunset.

They fitted together perfectly; if Race had another soulmate he didn’t want them.

When Race had a terribly bad idea, Lake was right there to pull him away and Spot would pull him into so other equally fun but far less dangerous plan.

When Spot was getting picked one for his lack of height, Lake would comfort him as Race got revenge for Spot.

When Lake got lost inside himself, as he described it, Spot could help remind him of the good side of everything and Race would make jokes to stop the conversation going too heavy.

They simply worked and whilst it wasn’t all perfect, Ghost was still king after all, they were happy.

————5th of October, 1898————

With the unusually warm Autumn weather came people who were happy to spend a few more moments outside to buy a paper and so Race finished selling earlier than usual. It was Tuesday so instead of heading to Brooklyn, Race found himself sitting on Albert’s bunk as he won a game of poker.

He suppressed a wince at his cards but as he looked back up, pain burst out across his wrist and deep in his chest. Yanking back his sleeve, he gasped in horror. The first date was crumbling, the black letters falling away to reveal a white scarred date underneath.

He shot to his feet and bolted out the door. One thought screamed at him again and again as he bolted down the streets.

Get to them!

He rounded the corner, darting onto the Brooklyn Bridge. It was nearly empty and he could barely see through the darkness.

He shot through the first arch.

The burning had left his chest, the screaming of his lungs replacing it.

He shot through the second arch. Something inside him begged him to stop and he froze. Two figures were just metres away from him. The taller of the two was pressed against the railing by the smaller figure.

The moonlight glinted off the knife at the taller figure’s throat.

Before he could move, the knife slashed sides way and the smaller figure shoved violently, sending the other figure over the edge and crashing into the river below.

He couldn’t move.

The figure turn and recognition swept over him.

“Spot?” His voice shook.

“That was Ghost but—” A sob broke through his words. “—I only did it ‘cause he kill ‘im.”

Spot crumpled to the ground, sobbing into his hands as Race dropped to his side.

“Who Spot?” He was begging. “I need ya ta tell me ‘cause I don’t want ya be right.”

“He killed Lake.” Tear-stained eyes stared up at him and he broke, wrapping Spot into a hug as they sobbed.

Pounded footsteps caught their attention and they glanced up. A group of Queens newsies were running down the bridge away from them.

“Spot, we gotta go ‘fore the bulls get ‘ere.”

Spot nodded shakily as they helped each other to their feet. Spot glanced at the knife in his hand before tossing it over the edge and then they were running, darting down the Brooklyn streets.

Race had never been so thankful the hideout was close to the bridge and so, with a quick glance around, he pulled Spot inside. They rushed up the stairs, only breathing as the door slammed shut behind them.

Race struck a match, trying to steady his hand as he lit the gas lamp.

He turned back towards the door, finally able to see Spot properly. He shook violently as he sat against the door, blood covering his hands, blood splatters down his clothes, and there were bloody hand marks on his face from when he had tried to cover his sobs.

Race took a deep breath, Spot needed someone calm right now. He tried not to think how Lake had always been the calm one.

Kneeling down next to Spot, he spoke.

“Let’s get ya cleaned up, ok?” He got a nodded so he continued. “I can wash ya clothes in the sink then get it off ya, ok?”

There was a second nod and, with a little more guidance from Race, Spot managed to pass Race his shirt and trousers. Race washed them the best he could in the sink, thankful for how well the red and black covered stains. Once they were hung up to dry, Race could turn his attention back to Spot who hadn’t moved at all.

“Let’s get ya cleaned up, ok?”

When he got a third nod, he took two towels that they usually used to dry themselves after swimming by the docks, and took a seat in front of Spot. Spreading one towel over their laps to keep them dry, he began to dip the second towel into a cup of water and wash away the drying blood.

Despite the bitterly cold water, Spot barely reacted at all. His eyes were glazed and unfocused; their usual joyful shine must of fallen from the bridge.

Once the blood was completely gone from both of them, Race washed and hung the towel before guiding Spot away from the door. He settled him down on the blanket that acted as a makeshift bed, lying them both down and drawing him into a hug.

As Spot sobbed against his chest, he broke down.

————

As the lamp began to burn low, Spot turned it off and lead Race back to the Brooklyn Lodging House.

They had moved Lake into one of the back rooms, a black cloth laid over him.

The grave was already dug.

“Spot?” One of the boys spoke up, a mixture of fear and hopefulness in his voice. “Are ya king now?”

Race watched for Spot’s reaction, even he knew what the question really meant.

“Yes.” There was a firmness to Spot’s voice, one that Race had never heard from him before.

None of the room objected but there was fear in their eyes.

“‘M changin’ things and ‘m startin’ now.” Spot marched across the room and ripped a piece of paper from the wall, crumpling it and dropping it to the floor. “We ain’t usin’ Ghost’s rules anymore. No more bein’ locked away when ya switch. No more hidin’ souldates. No more hidin’ who ya soulmate is. Understand?”

Despite the dangerousness in Spot’s voice, Race was certain that the sighs from the group were sighs of relief.

“Get off ta bed, it’s late.”

“Spot?” Another boy spoke. “Ghost called yous spoilt fa havin’ two soulmates, is he ya other soulmate?”

“This is Racetrack and we ain’t sure.”

“Actually—” There was a slight glimmer of hope in Spot’s eyes when he turned to look at Race. “—I think I felt it when Lake died and one of my dates ‘as scarred so...” He trailed off but Spot smiled at him, barely more than a twist of his lips but a smile nonetheless.

“I ain’t surprised. We fit together perfectly.”

They both glanced towards the back room, both silently realising that nothing would be the same.

Spot held out his hand.

“Stay the night?”

Race nodded, taking the hand and not letting go until they were both curled up in Spot’s bed and they could wrap each other up in their arms.

————6th of October, 1898————

Race ended up selling right next to Spot, neither caring that they could sell more if they weren’t shoulder to shoulder; they couldn’t bear to be apart. When they returned to the lodging house in the evening, a casket had been bought for Lake and they buried him behind the lodging house, a simple wooden board marking his grave.

Neither Spot nor Race cried; Race wasn’t sure he had any tears left. They stood together, their hands intertwined, and said their goodbyes silently. Slowly, the other newsies said their final goodbye and went inside. They didn’t move.

“Why were theys complainin’ ‘bout the ‘eat?” Race whispered, not looking away from the grave.

“I ain’t sure. It’s cold today.” Spot kept his eyes on the grave, his voice flat as he spoke.

“I thought that too.”

They fell back into silence.

The setting sun didn’t dare disturb them.

————

The sun had long since set when Race went to leave for Manhattan.

He hugged Spot tightly, burying his head in his shoulder.

“See ya on Friday?”

“Of course.” Spot nodded slightly. “Meet me ‘ere?”

Race smiled at the idea of being able to meet anywhere.

“I’ll be ‘ere.”

He forced himself to step away and set off back to Manhattan.

————

“Ink. Joey. Follow ‘im from a distance and make sure he ain’t ‘urt on ‘is way back ta ‘Hattan.”

The two newsies nodded at Spot’s words and darted out the door after Race.

————

The lodging house was unusually silent when he entered. He didn’t look up; he didn’t think he had the strength to deal with anything else today. He kept his head down but, before he could escape to his bunk, a pair of shoes appeared in his limited field of view. Jack’s shoes.

Shit.

“Race—”

“‘M exhausted, Jack. Can’t ya shout at me tomorrow?”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because Jack nearly exploded.

“No I ain’t gonna wait ‘til tomorrow!” His voice smashed through the silence of the room, shock sending Race reeling backwards. “We were startin’ ta think ya were dead!”

“What?” Race snapped his eyes up. A mixture of distress, relief, and anger stared back at him. “What made ya think that?”

Jack paused before continuing in a quiet, careful voice.

“Ya ain’t ‘eard? Ghost ain’t King of Brooklyn anymore.”

“Ok.” Race didn’t dare say anything more, he didn’t want to reveal anything they didn’t already know without asking Spot first.

“Some Queens newsies are sayin’ they saw Spot Conlon kill Ghost and throw ‘im off the Bridge. They told us ‘cause they saw a ‘Hattan newsie with ‘im.”

“I didn’t know they saw me.” Race mumbled but before he could continue, Jack was almost yelling at him.

“Ya mean they ain’t lyin’ or mistaken? Ya were there?” He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. He clenched his jaw then looked back up, terrified anger in his eyes and voice. “Racetrack Higgins. Ya betta’ ‘ave a good reason fa not runnin’ a mile when ya saw a murder.”

“He did it fa a reason.” Race snapped back, hating how bad the situation seemed.

“And what reason is that?”

Race froze. Could he say? If he gave a reason for Spot’s actions and someone told the bulls, Spot could be sent to prison or worse.

“I—” He couldn’t risk it. “—can’t say.”

“Why? ‘Cause there ain’t a reason? I knew Ghost ‘fore he closed Brooklyn, he was a tough leader but he was fair—”

Race didn’t heard anything more. Something in him simply switched off and he was thankful; Jack is his brother and he never wants to have a reason to be upset at him. He watched through fog covered eyes as he walked past Jack, pulling away from the hand that tried to stop him.

He couldn’t have told you how he got to bed.

————6th of October, 1898————

He dreamed of the bridge. Of Ghost and Spot struggling against each other but this time Spot didn’t win. He raced to the edge, watching helplessly as Spot fell into the blood red water. He reached out after him, too far away to ever reach him but desperate to try, and caught a glimpse of his arms. The smell of the Spot’s blood hit him, clogging his nose with the smell that was far too real. He staggered back, spinning around to face Ghost. Ghost smiled. He stepped to the side to reveal Lake, as lifeless as the body on the back room’s table.

“Ya killed us, Race. Ya killed us, Race. Ya killed us, Race.” Lake’s broken voice circled his head and then Spot was speaking too, the voices taking over as the bridge faded away. The voices grew and grew, louder and louder. The smell of blood submerged him until he was choking, screaming for air.

————

He bolted awake with a scream on his tongue.

His eyes flicked wildly around the lodging house but everywhere he looked, someone was staring at him.

He leapt from his bed, arms wrapping around him as he tried to escape.

“I need ta know he’s ok.” He knew he was sobbing but he didn’t care.

“Breathe Race. Let’s take a moment then ya can go check.”

Every inch of him screamed at him to keep fighting but his legs gave out and he collapsed into the arms that held him.

“Ya ok, I got ya.”

An arm looped around his waist, half carrying him back to his bunk. He knew he was shaking but he couldn’t stop. A body settled beside him and tugged him against his side. He tried to focus on the steady movements of the hand on his arm, desperately trying to push away the smell of blood that still seem to linger in his nose.

“Race?”

He looked up at the person next to him. Jack smiled slightly.

“There ya are. Ya scared me.” Race ducked his head, mumbling out an apology. “Ya don’t gotta be sorry. Ya think ya can get back ta sleep?”

Race shook his head.

“I gotta go ta Brooklyn. I gotta know he’s ok.”

“Not a chance.” Jack’s voice was firm. “Ya ain’t goin’ ta Brooklyn ‘til Conlon ain’t there anymore.”

“But I—”

“I ain’t riskin’ ya gettin’ ‘urt or worse. Conlon’s a murderer and there ain’t a reason why he ain’t gonna kill ‘gain. I don’t care where else ya go just keep away from Brooklyn.” Jack took Race by the shoulders. “Please.”

Race stared up at him. Jack was begging. Jack didn’t beg. He bargained and conceded and ordered but he never begged.

“Ok, I ain’t gonna go ta Brooklyn.” The words were sour on his tongue; Race hated lying to Jack.

“Thank ya.” Jack gestured towards the door to the penthouse. “If ya ain’t gonna get ta sleep, ya want ta get some fresh air?”

Race nodded, taking Jack’s hand and letting him guide him up into the penthouse. As they walked away from the bed, Jack grabbed a blanket from the floor so, once he was staring out across the Manhattan rooftops, the Brooklyn Bridge rising up in the distance, Race asked him about it.

“‘Cause I was real worried ‘bout ya.” Jack settled next to him, draping the blanket over both of them. “Ya just shut down, it was like ya couldn’t ‘ear us.”

“Oh.”

“Who is this person ya wanted ya check on?”

“My soulmate.”

“Fa real?” Jack looked a second away from shouting for joy. “Ya found ‘em? Both of ‘em?”

“Sure I found ‘em. But—” Tears started to sting at his eyes. “—One ain’t alive anymore.”

“‘M sorry.” A beat of silence rung out. “What was their name?”

“Lakes.”

“A newsie I take it?” Race just nodded. “And what’s the other’s name?”

“I can’t tell ya.”

“Would ya tell me ‘bout ‘em?”

Race took a deep breath, staring past the Bridge towards the lights of Brooklyn.

“Lakes was the calm one. He used ta put up with a lot...”

————

Jack smiled down at Race, unnoticed as the younger boy stared into the darkness, rambling about the two boys who held his heart. He was worried for him, having one dead soulmate and one who’s name he couldn’t tell Jack wasn’t a good situation. The idea that it might be Spot Conlon bubbled up but he frantically shoved it away; there was no way Race’s soulmate would be a murderer. The boy was probably just hiding his second souldate from his parents and didn’t give Race permission to tell anyone.

As the sun began to rise, Race drifted off to sleep, tales of his soulmates still on his tongue. Jack pulled the blanket up over their shoulders and let his head rest against the wall. He was going to be exhausted in the morning but at least Race is ok.

————

Sometimes, Race really hates how well Jack knows him. Just after selling, he had snuck down to the Brooklyn Bridge, successfully avoiding being seen by anyone who would tell on him to Jack, but when he got there, Jack was leaning against the railing. He didn’t shout at him, he simply put a hand on his shoulder and walked him back to the lodging house.

————13th of October, 1898————

A week passed before he decided that he needed to get to Brooklyn and see Spot, even if it meant losing his sleep and likely getting shouted at by Jack.

Late that night, long after the other newsies had fallen asleep, Race crept out of bed. Grabbing his boots, he snuck out the door. Carefully closing the door behind him, he pulled his boots on and bolted down the silent streets.

He ran onto the bridge, sprinting through the first arch. As the bridge stretched out in front of him, a figure made him slow. The figure stood halfway along the bridge, leaning against the railing. As he continued his path, the figure turned and spoke.

“Ya came.”

“‘M real sorry Spot, Jack wouldn’t let me come.” Spot just smiled slightly, holding out his hand for him to take.

Hand in hand, they walked back to the Brooklyn Lodging House.

————

“Race?” Spot spoke, breaking the easy silence that had settled over them.

Race didn’t move his head, reluctant to lose the warmth and protection of Spot’s arms. It was new, Spot had always been the one who needed protecting, the smallest one, the weakest one, the one with the impossible optimism.

“Hmm?”

“Would ya cut my ‘air?”

The request made him pause, breaking back to look at Spot.

“Ya always said ya like ‘ow fluffy ya ‘air is?”

“I know I did. I felt like it was me. I don’t want ta be fluffy anymore.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He opened his eyes. “I can’t lose ya, Race. I ain’t ever gonna let anyone ‘urt ya and every newsie in New York is gonna know not ta mess with ya. So I need ta be someone that nobody dares upset.”

A fire blazed in Spot’s eyes, determined and angry but also full of sadness.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Spot. But I want ya ta be ‘appy and I ain’t gonna stop ya doin’ anythin’ that makes ya ‘appy.” Race smiled at Spot; there was nothing Spot could ask that he wouldn’t do. “Even if that means losin’ ya curls. Ya want me to cut ya ‘air now?”

Spot nodded.

“We ‘ave scissors in the washroom.”

He rolled into a sitting position, holding out his hand for Race to take.

————

They chatted quietly as Race cut away the fluffy black curls, letting them drop onto the tiled floor.

“Ok.” He set the scissors to the side. “‘Ave a look, see what ya think.”

He waited with bated breath as Spot examine himself. After a painfully long minute, Spot turned to him, smiling slightly.

“It’s perfect.”

————

Jack didn’t find out about his first nighttime trip to Brooklyn so he went again. And again. And again.

Every trip, Spot grew further and further from his past self. By the start of summer, the fluffy haired, optimistic boy was gone and in his place was a leader, all harsh lines and strong enough to soak even the roughest fighters. Even the gangs that warred for territory in Manhattan learnt to leave Brooklyn alone.

————

Race curled into Spot’s arms, his head resting on Spot’s chest. Spot’s hand curled through his hair, a comforting presence as he drifted off to sleep; Spot would make sure he wasn’t late back to Manhattan.

————29th of July, 1899————

Brooklyn didn’t join them on the first day of the strike but not because Spot refused to join, Spot was never asked to join. Jack never sent anyone to Brooklyn and his ban on Manhattan newsies visiting Brooklyn stayed strong.

Even Race couldn’t visit Brooklyn that night, he had far too many littles to comfort as the fear and anticipation set in.

————30th of July, 1899————

Race sprinted down the streets, the bull’s whistles ringing out behind him as the newsies scattered. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Elmer and Albert dodge into an alleyway but he didn’t stop.

He darted to the side, dodging around a pair of gentlemen.

The Brooklyn Bridge rose up in front of him and he shot up the ramp without a second thought; he knew where he had to go.

He darted through the first arch and then the second. 

Buildings flew past as he wove through the Brooklyn streets.

His lungs began to scream at him but he didn’t slow as he tore along the docks.

Finally, finally, he saw him. The Brooklyn newsies parted to let him through as he ran along the pier towards Spot. As he approached, slowing to an exhausted walk, Spot dropped from his tower of crates.

“Racer? What ‘appened?”

He collapsed into Spot’s arms, his body screaming in pain. Spot helped him stagger backwards, settling him against one of the crates.

“No no no ya gotta keep ya eyes open ‘til I know ya ok.” Hands cupped his cheeks as he forced his eyes open. Spot stared back at him with a panic stricken expression.

“‘M ok,” He knew his words were slurred but he couldn’t make them any clearer until the air returned to his lungs and his body stopped hurting so much.

“Where are ya ‘urt?”

“Lotta places but imma be fine.” He reached a shaking hand up, taking Spot’s hand in his own. “Promise.”

“Ok, take a minute then let’s get ya back ta the lodgin’ ‘ouse.”

He nodded slowly, dropping his head back against the crate.

————

He drifted back into consciousness. Strong arms held him against a warm chest and he knew he was safe despite the bustling street around him. He drifted away again.

————

When he came around for the second time, he was bundled up in a bed, a hand resting on his shoulder as quiet voices talked around him.

“‘Pparently ‘Hattan went on strike.”

He shifted slightly, the hand on his shoulder slowly brushing back and forth in response.

“‘Lone?” He relaxed at Spot’s voice; he was safe in Brooklyn.

“All the boroughs told Kelly’s boys they would join if ya join. They were real confused when we said ya didn’t get asked.”

“I’ll talk ta Race ‘bout it, see what he knows.”

With a quiet acknowledgment, the door creaked open then shut.

“‘Ow ya feelin’?”

Race forced himself to roll over, his ribs protesting the movement.

“Been betta’,” he mumbled, opening his eyes as he smiled weakly up at Spot.

“I ain’t surprised, ya ribs are all bruised, ya gotta impressive black eye, and I think ya ran all the way from ‘Hattan.” Spot lifted his hand to brush a curl away from Race’s eye. “I never want ta ‘ave ta do that again, Racer. Ya weren’t awake so we ‘ad guess where ya were ‘urt by if ya winced or not.” He clenched his jaw, wringing his lower lips between his teeth, and Race felt awful; that was the closest Spot came to crying anymore.

He pushed himself up, ignoring Spot’s insistence that he should stay still, and wrapped his arms around Spot. Almost instantly, Spot wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him close. There was a beat then Spot slowly dropped his head onto his shoulder.

————31st of July, 1899————

When he finally left Brooklyn the next morning, it was with a promise than Brooklyn would be there the next time they striked, whether Jack sent word to Brooklyn or not, and a smile on his lips, which he quickly hide before he entered Jacobi’s Deli.

————1st of August, 1899————

Tension flooded the theatre as the boroughs waited in tense silence. Gossipers whispered that Brooklyn was stirring into action, that they would be joining the strike, and if Brooklyn joined, so would the other boroughs.

And so they waited.

Race had taken a seat right next to the stage, biting at his lip as he waited to hide the knowing smirk that threatened to reveal his secret.

The doors of the theatre swung open.

The Brooklyn newsies silently filed in, filling the remaining seats and lining the walls.

Everyone waited with bated breath. No one knew what Spot Conlon looked like, few ever met newsies from other boroughs and he had not left Brooklyn since he had become king; inter-borough negotiations were carried out by messenger. Even the Queens newsies who were on the Brooklyn Bridge that night had barely seen him through the darkness.

A figure stepped through the doors as Race bit back a smile.

No one moved as he made his way down the centre aisle.

He ascended the stairs onto the stage, looking around slowly.

“Where’s Kelly?” His blunt voice kept the room on their toes.

“He isn’t here yet.” Davey spoke up, one hand fidgeting nervously by his side. “You must be Spot Conlon.”

“Yes. Name?”

“David.” Spot raised an eyebrow and Davey rushed to continue. “David Jacobs.”

Spot nodded once.

“Ya talk real fancy.”

“I’m new to being a newsie.”

Spot frowned slightly, looking past Davey and making eye contact with Race.

Race smiled slightly before subtly gesturing to the crowd with his head, making a “you and me” gesture with his thumb, and sending Spot a questioning look. He received a small nod, a tap on his souldates, and a shake of his head in return. He nodded in understanding and Spot spoke.

“Good ta see ya in one piece, Race.”

“Good ta see ya decided ta join the party, Spot.” Spot huffed in laughter as shocked gasps rung out around them.

“Ya friends don’t approve of us talkin’.”

“That’s ‘cause Jack is gonna be furious when he finds out.”

“Kelly should be glad I know ya. I woulda left if I ‘ad ta deal with the new kid.”

“Davey ‘as more brains than most, he ain’t gonna be ‘ard ta deal with but I ain’t helpin’ ya case Jack arrives as I do. They can be bribed—” he gestured at the other Manhattan newsies. “—Jack’s eyes can’t.”

“Well—”

“Conlon.” Jack’s voice cut Spot off. Jack stepped out of the crowd, standing in front of Race with anger radiating off him. “Why are ya ‘ere?”

“‘Cause I was asked ta be. Ya ain’t survivin’ this strike ‘lone.”

“One,” Jack glared over his shoulder at Race. “I didn’t ask ‘im fa a reason.” He turned away, letting Race exchange unnoticed nervous glances with Elmer who sat beside him. “Two, the strike don’t need ta carry on past today.”

As Jack continued, explaining the deal he had struck with Pulitzer, sickness began to pool in Race’s stomach; he had betrayed them.

The wedge of money dropped into Jack’s hand and the theatre dissolved into chaos. The crowd surged, angry voices yelling at Jack as Davey’s voice fought back against them.

Race didn’t move, his brother had betrayed them and in doing so, Jack had set his world crumbling to pieces.

“Hey,” Spot appeared beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder to catch his attention. “Come back ta Brooklyn with me?”

“I can’t. If Jack ain’t ‘ere then there ain’t no one else ta look after the lodgin’ ‘ouse. I’m his second so I gotta step up.”

“Ya know where ta find me if ya need me.”

With a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, Spot vanished into the crowd, a short harmonica tune ringing out moments later. A wave of other harmonicas echoed it and the Brooklyn newsies turned and left.

As the other leaders slowly gathered their newsies and left, Race took charge and led Jack’s newsies back to the lodging house.

————2nd of August, 1899————

The next time Race saw Spot, the sound of cheering newsies echoed around them. The crowd surged back and forth, granting them mere glimpses of each other but Race could see Spot’s smile, just a small twist of the lips but a smile nonetheless. He smiled back as Spot wove through the crowd towards him.

They paused, less than a metre from each other.

“Will ya visit Brooklyn tonight? Ya could join the Brooklyn celebrations if ya want.”

“Jack ain’t gonna like that.” Spot raised an eyebrow. “‘M sure he ‘ad a reason. He wouldn’t ‘ave come back if he didn’t.”

“Come ta Brooklyn after ya talk ta Jack, ok?”

“I’ll be there.”

Spot nodded with a smile and vanished into the dispersing crowd. A wave of harmonicas rung out and the Brooklyn newsies left.

————

Late that evening, Race found himself clambering out into Jack’s penthouse. Two figure sat against the wall, looking out across the city.

“Jack?” Jack and Davey turned to face him, the latter’s presence made him furrow his brow and tilt his head in confusion. “Davey? Ya ain’t at ‘ome yet?”

“I got permission to stay late because of the celebrations.”

“Right.” He fidgeted awkwardly, not wanting to upset Davey but wanting to talk to Jack. “Can I talk ta ya, Jack? ‘Lone?”

“Sure but ‘fore ya do, can I tell ya somethin’ with Davey ‘ere?”

“Ok.” Race settled cross legged, away from the wall so he could see both of them. “What ya gotta say?”

Jack bit his lip, glancing at Davey who nodded.

He held up his wrist, tugging down his wrist to show his souldate.

Race stared at it.

“That’s the night ya spent in Pulitzer’s basement.”

Jack nodded. He wasn’t crying, which was odd because everyone knows how hard it is to find your soulmate if only one knows who the other is, he was smiling.

A squeeze of Davey’s hand caught Race’s eye; he hadn’t noticed they were holding hands before.

“Yous swapped.” At Jack’s nod, Race beamed. “‘M so ‘appy fa yous!”

Jack beamed at Race’s reaction but slowly his face fell.

“Ya ‘ere fa a reason, ain’t ya?” Race nodded. “Pulitzer threatened the whole lodgin’ ‘ouse, includin’ ya and Crutchie and Davey and Les...” he trailed off. “I couldn’t let ‘im ‘urt yous.”

Race didn’t answer, instead choosing to wrap Jack in a hug which he instantly returned.

————

“Race?” Elmer spoke up as Race headed for the door. “Are ya goin’ ta Brooklyn?”

“No?”

“Jack’s gonna be furious!” Albert whisper yelled. “Ya gonna wish he was only yellin’ ‘bout the frog incident.”

Race winced at the memory; Jack had been terrifying.

“Look, if Jack asks, ‘m at a poker game in the Bronx.”

Once he received a wave of reluctant nods, Race darted out the lodging house.

————

“Ya made it.”

Race beamed down at Spot as he let himself get dragged into a poker game.

————

Hours later, Race crashed onto Spot’s bed, completely exhausted.

“Don’t ya want ta be under the blanket?” Spot teased, laughing at Race’s tired grumbling.

Too tired to think of a quick response, Race let his eyes drift closed as he listened to Spot quietly moving around the room.

Spot chuckled and before Race could object, arms wrapped under him and lifted him from the bed. With a flick of fabric, they placed him back down.

Race stared at Spot with wide eyes.

“Ya just...” He drifted off to avoid stuttering uselessly.

Spot smiled sweetly as he lay next to Race, wrapping his arms around him and tugging him in. Curled up against Spot’s chest, Race let himself finally calm after the events of the day. A hand rested in his hair, curling gently through the strands. He hummed gently, smiling at Spot’s huff of laughter. Slowly, his eyes slipped shut.

“Goodnight my love.”

Sleep took him before he could respond.

————

Spot didn’t mind that Race didn’t respond, he knew he heard from the gentle smile on his face as he slept.

————15th of November, 1899————

Race knew it was coming.

He hadn’t been counting down the days but he saw the date creep nearer when he glanced at the papers each morning.

He was terrified.

He was terrified but he didn’t know what he was terrified of.

Of not switching again?

Of Spot have another soulmate?

Of having a soulmate that wasn’t Spot?

He didn’t want any of them to happen because one left everything uncertain, the next left him alone, and the last one left him with a soulmate who might not want to let him stay with Spot.

The clock ticked slowly.

23:57

The room was tense; no one had forgotten the first date.

23:58

“Race?” He glanced at Jack. “Where is Lake buried?”

“Behind the Brooklyn Lodgin’ ‘ouse but they shoulda already dug him up.” It felt wrong to disturb him but nobody knew what Ghost had seen and they had all considered the worst.

23:59

“Ya went ta Brooklyn ‘gain.”

“I don’t know ‘ow ta stay away. He’s there.” Race responded, unsure if he could ever explain his actions to Jack until he knew the truth about Ghost and Lake.

Jack sighed.

“We’ll talk later.”

Race nodded.

November 15th 1899  
00:00

————

23:58

Tension lay like fog in the main room of the Brooklyn Lodging House as the minutes ticked past.

Lake’s casket lay open in the back room but Spot tried not to think about it.

He fidgeted nervously, brushing his thumb over the date and time on his wrist.

The idea of having another soulmate terrified him because they would want him to themself but there was no way he was letting Race go. He knew they couldn’t make him leave Race but if Race thought he was in the way and left to ‘let Spot be happy’ or something?

He wasn’t sure he would be able to live if he lost Race too.

23:59

Spot fought back the thoughts and rose from his throne.

“Don’t ya worry, we ain’t gonna let ya soulmate get ‘urt, whether it is Race or not.”

He nodded once at Chaser’s words and took a seat on the spare bunk.

November 15th 1899  
00:00

————

He jerked awake, squeezing his eyes shut as the room span around him. Slowly counting to five in his head, he opened his eyes, nearly sobbing with relief at the sight of the Brooklyn lodging house around him.

“So... what’s ya name?” Chaser asked, the rest of the lodging house watching intently.

“Racetrack Higgins.” He smirked, beaming when the lodging house bursting into cheers.

Within minutes, they were out the door, Race leading the way as they sprinted towards the Manhattan Lodging House.

————

He jerked away, quickly shutting his eyes to avoid the nausea of his last switch. He opened his eyes, examining the room around him.

It wasn’t anywhere he had been before but the surrounding crowd dressed like newsies. As he examined the crowd, he finally began to spot some vaguely familiar faces. The boy who was next to Race at the rally, then the new kid, and then Kelly.

“Ya recognise me, don’t ya?” Kelly asked, breaking the tense silence.

“Yeah, we’ve met once or twice.”

“Ya gonna tell us who ya are?” The kid who had been sitting beside Race asked, bouncing on his heels in excitement. As he thought back, he remembered that Race had later explained that his name is Elmer.

He took a deep breath. It felt like a stupid idea to reveal himself, the sort of idea that would get Race hurt, but Race had insisted that there wasn’t a better time because Kelly wouldn’t risk hurting Race.

“The name’s Spot Conlon.”

Every jaw dropped.

A coin fell from somewhere, clattering as it spun on the wooden floor.

“No.” Jack’s jaw clenched, anger and panic burning in his eyes. “Ya betta’ be jokin’.”

“I ain’t gonna ‘urt Race if that what ya worried ‘bout.”

“If ya weren’t in Race’s body I’d—” He cut himself short.

“I’d what? Kill ya? ‘Cept that makes ya just as bad as me.”

“I would ‘ave a reason!” Kelly snapped back, his fist clenching repeatedly at his sides.

“Ya think I didn’t.” He kept his voice calm as they stared each other down.

“What was it?”

“We agreed ta meet up if we switched.”

“What was it?” Jack’s voice tense further.

“‘M glad Race put his shoes on, knowin’ ‘im I wouldn’t be able ta find one of ‘em if he ‘adn’t.”

“Give me a good reason, Conlon!” Jack snapped, stepping into his path.

“‘M gonna go meet ‘im.”

“I ain’t lettin’ ya take ‘is body anywhere. I shouldn’t ‘ave let ya meet! Now I know ya ‘is soulmate, I wish I’d never let ‘im leave that first night. He told me that’s when ya met. Ya know what I shoulda done? I shoulda made sure ya never knew who he was, locked ‘im away tonight if I ‘ad ta!”

Spot saw red.

————

Race shot up the stairs, bursting into the main room as Jack yelled at Spot.

“—locked ‘im away tonight if I ‘ad ta!”

Shit.

Spot launched himself at Jack as Race leapt forwards, reaching out his hand to grab Spot’s arm. They switched instantly, crashing to the ground in a tumble of nausea and confusion.

Spot scrambled to his feet but Race threw himself between them, pushing Spot back.

“Let me at ‘im.” Spot growled. Race knew Spot would win if he tried so he had to talk them down quickly.

“Don’t soak ‘im, he’s my brudda’!” Race knew he was begging, his hand clutching desperately at Spot’s forearms.

“Ya shoulda ‘eard ‘im, Race. He’s just like Ghost!”

“He ain’t, I swear. He’s scared fa me ‘cause of what he ‘as ‘eard ‘bout ya.”

“Ya swear he ain’t like Ghost? He ain’t doin’ nothin’ even a little bit similar?”

“I swear.”

Spot pulled his arms apart and Race took the invitation, wrapping his arms over Spot’s shoulders and holding him close. Spot responded by wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. He didn’t drop his head onto Race’s shoulder as he often did but Race didn’t mind, he knew Spot had a reputation to keep up.

“Kelly ain’t gonna like me ‘til I tell ‘im ‘bout Ghost.” Spot whispered.

“Tell ‘im then.” Race whispered back.

“Ya say that like it’s so easy but what if someone realises they can use ya ‘gainst me?”

“They’ll figure it out eventually. ‘Sides, everyone knows ta fear Brooklyn, ain’t this just makin’ sure they know if they touch ya soulmate, ya will kill ‘em.”

Spot chuckled, shaking his head as he broke back from the hug.

“I ain’t sure ‘m ever gonna be able ta be more persuasive then ya.”

Race laughed as Spot turned away, even his stance hardening as he addressed Jack.

“Ya wanted a reason? Fine.” The rest of the Manhattan newsies turned them attention onto Spot; no one wanted to miss anything about what had been the biggest news of the year outside of the papers. “Ghost changed after he switched. We ain’t sure what he saw, probably the inside of a grave or somethin’, but he started ta take it out on us, lashing out if ya as much as smiled. He banned soulmates, ya couldn’t mention ‘em and ya ‘ad ta pretend ya didn’t ‘ave one.”

Race could see the tension growing in Spot as he continued.

“We let it pass, he was grievin’. We gave ‘im a year and a ‘alf and all that time, he got worse. He forced one kid ta get thrown inta The Refuge so he couldn’t be ‘round ‘is soulmate. He threatened the family of one newsies so they would leave Brooklyn and they wouldn’t be able ta find each other. He also locked newsies in the back room when they switched so they couldn’t find each other as easily.”

Understanding visibly dawned on Jack as Spot’s words but he didn’t interrupt as Spot continued.

“So a year and a ‘alf goes by. One night, I make it back ta the lodgin’ ‘ouse and Lake is there but Ghost ain’t so I give Lake a kiss in greetin’. Just a kiss and a real brief one at that but that’s when Ghost gets back. The bastard didn’t fuckin’ wait, just grabbed Lake and slit his neck.”

Race forced back the memories of that night.

“Ya know what that bastard did next? He laughed. Fuckin’ laughed!”

Spot held his breath, clearly trying to hide the way his body was shaking in anger.

He turned to face Race, holding out his hand with a pleading look on his face. Race didn’t need any further prompting, he took Spot’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

Spot turned back to Jack.

“Ya know the rest. Ya see why I saw I would never ‘urt Race?”

Jack nodded solemnly,

“Ya dangerous Conlon, but ya ain’t dangerous ta Race.” He spat on his hand, holding it towards Spot. He gestured to his hand with a tilt of his head. “Look after ‘im.”

Spot spat and the two leaders shook hands.

A thought his Race.

“Albert! Ya owe me a nickel!”

“Why?”

“‘Cause ya bet Jack wouldn’t act like a father ‘til the first weddin’.”

Albert groaned, tossing Race a coin as Jack began to stammer protests. Eventually he stopped trying gesturing to the door.

“Just get outta ‘ere Race, go spend some time with Conlon.”

Race beamed, wrapping Jack in a hug and dragging Spot out the door. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, blocking out the prying eyes of the newsies. Spot beamed at Race and they both set off back to Brooklyn.

————

Race and Spot settled down on the rooftop of the Brooklyn Lodging House, their backs against the wall as they stared out over the city. An arm around Race’s waist held him close as he entangled their legs, wrapping Spot’s hand in his own to keep back the November chill.

“Race?” Spot dropped his head on his shoulder as he whispered through the quiet air of the rooftop.

“Hmm?”

“Ya ain’t mad I tried ta soak Kelly, right?”

“Nah, I ain’t mad.” Race let the side of his head rest on top of Spot’s head. “Ya were just tryin’ ta protect me.”

“‘M always gonna protect ya. I’ll tear down New York and Brooklyn if I gotta.” The familiar determination shone through his voice and Race couldn’t help but smile.

“I know ya would.” Race curled his free arm over Spot’s shoulder. “And ‘m gonna do everythin’ ta stay by ya, ya ain’t ever gettin’ rid of me. ‘M gonna be ‘arder ta get rid of than a pape durin’ a storm.”

Spot laughed lightly, taking his hand from Race’s waist and gently hitting him over the back of his head. Race gasped in fake offence but, as Spot ran his fingers through his hair in apology, Race dropped the act with a laugh.

They stayed on the rooftop for hours, only clambering down to Spot’s bunk when the November air had numbed their fingers.

————

New York burnt as the truth behind Ghost’s murder blazed through the streets, the news of the new Prince of Brooklyn scorching its heels. As the fire died down, Spot aged out and rose to power, a criminal empire at his feet and Race ready to stand at his right hand. The thing was, when Spot swore to tear down New York to protect Race, to make sure he didn’t share Lake’s fate, he meant it. He built himself an empire so powerful that even the police wouldn’t lay a finger on them. The thing is, empires aren’t built overnight and gaining money takes time.

————5th of February, 1910————

Spot placed down the statistics for his casino. There was nothing new about the most recent monthly report, the business had long since settled into a steady pattern which he had no intentions to change; casinos had never been his strong point.

He rose, he had plans today which couldn’t be pushed back. Shrugging on his jacket, he left his office and made his way to the front door, his fingertips brushing over the wood of Race’s office door as he passed.

————

Race smiled as Spot entered his office, pushing away the statistics for the most recently built casino and accepting Spot’s kiss.

“Ya didn’t forget ‘bout dinner with Davey and Jack did ya?” Spot huffed a laugh at Race’s embarrassed expression. “And ‘ere I thought ya would be draggin’ me along.”

“Don’t act like ya don’t love when ya get ta complain with Davey ‘bout the stupid things Jack and I do.”

Spot didn’t even try to deny it as he held open the door for Race.

————

As he stepped into the chilly streets, a newsie yelled out.

“Katherine Pulitzer ta take over The World, read it ‘ere!”

As he waited for the crowd which surrounded the newsie to disperse, he debated whether to send a letter congratulating Katherine. He decided not to, there was nothing except a ten year old strike connecting them anymore.

“Buy a pape, Mr Spot?”

The newsie smiled up at him with innocent eyes and he smiled back, handing over a dollar. The newsie beamed as he handed over the paper and Spot left with a ruffle of the newsie’s hair.

————

As they made their way out into the chilly Brooklyn streets, a newsie yelled out.

“Katherine Pulitzer ta take over The World, read it ‘ere!”

“It’s a good ‘eadline.” Spot commented as they passed the crowd which surrounded the newsie.

“We ain’t gotta buy a pape ta ‘ear ‘bout it though, Davey and Jack will know all ‘bout it.”

“‘Ppose they will, ya think all the papes are gonna cover Katherine and Sarah’s wedding now?”

Race screwed up his face in confusion.

“Wouldn’t they always ‘ave?” Spot shrugged. “Either way, theys gonna be shocked at ‘ow many former newsies are gonna be there.”

“And ‘ow many rich fellas ain’t invited.” Race laughed at Spot’s words but a voice called out before he could respond.

————

His old home rose up in front of him as a voice called out.

“Good mornin’, Mr Spot.”

The newsie who had greeted him stood mere metres from the door, a bag of papers over his arm. Spot walked over to him.

“Mornin’ Dates.” Spot greeted.

“I wanted ta thank ya fa payin’ the doctor last night, he said Rose wouldn’t ‘ave made it without it.” Dates smiled gratefully, fidgeting for a moment so Spot didn’t answer; he clearly had more to say. “Rose is my soulmate and I ain’t sure what I woulda done without ‘er.”

Spot smiled sadly as the memories pushed forwards.

“Ya know, I might ‘ave agreed ta pay fa any needed doctors ta ‘elp every Brooklyn newsies but I always ‘oped it would ‘elp the soulmate, not just the newsie who is sick.”

“It sure did this time.” Dates smiled. “Ya ‘ere ta see ‘em?”

Spot nodded and Dates stepped aside to clear a path to the door.

“‘Ave a good day.”

“Ya too, make the most of the good ‘eadline.”

————

“Good mornin’, Mr Spot. Good mornin’, Mr Racetrack!”

They glanced towards the voice and the Brooklyn Lodging House rose up before them. The newsie who had greeted them stood mere metres from the door, a bag of papers over his arm. He jogged over to them.

“Mornin’ Dates.” Spot greeted, Race greeting Dates just a moment after.

“I wanted ta thank yous fa payin’ the doctor last night, he said Rose wouldn’t ‘ave made it without it.” Dates smiled gratefully, one of his actions catching his eye. His thumb drifted back and forth over one of the four dates on his arm.

“Can I ask, is Rose ya soulmate?” Race asked carefully but his words were quickly answered with a beaming smile and a nod. “Ya make sure ya look after ‘er then.” Race paused, glancing at Spot with a cheeky grin. “I got sick ‘bout, umm, seven years back, Spot was real motherin’.”

“It ain’t motherin’ if ya were seriously ill. It’s called lookin’ after ya.” Race rolled his eyes dramatically so Spot just shook his head in despair. “We betta’ go, Kelly will be waitin’, but ‘m glad we could ‘elp.”

“Right, ‘ave a good day!” Dates chirped and with a wave, they continued down the streets towards Manhattan.

“‘M glad we can ‘elp ‘em.” Spot commented.

“Same.” Race replied then laughed. “I mean, who needs kids when ya can parent fifty newsies.”

Spot burst out laughing.

As they continued walking, Spot spoke again.

“Remember we said we’d visit Lake tonight.”

“Ya don’t gotta remind me ‘bout that. The rose is in my pocket.”

————

Passing Dates, Spot entered the Brooklyn Lodging House. He didn’t go up into the main bunk room, instead he went through the back door and out into the garden. He barely glanced at the new play equipment, the money he donated bought far more than just necessities, as he made his way over to the back corner. He creaked open the wooden gate into the tiny graveyard.

There weren’t many graves, most of the newsies were buried in The Refuge or wherever the police take the bodies they find on the streets. Even newsies who died of illness weren’t there, there was far too much change the illness would spread to the other newsies and so the organisation paid for them to be taken away. At the time it had all made sense but as Spot stared at the two lone graves, Spot couldn’t help but wonder if they were lonely. He pushed the thought away, he was only lonely because he was alone, they were together.

He settled between the two graves, his back against the stone wall which surrounded the graveyard.

“Hey Race and Happy Birthday Lake. I did promise I wouldn’t miss a birthday, didn’t I?”

He pulled a small box from his pocket and opened it. Inside sat a little glass rose. He reached over, pressing it into the soil beside Lake’s gravestone; the wooden board had rotted through years ago. He smiled at the little glass gardens which were slowly forming by each grave. It had been Race’s idea, flowers were too impermanent, but none of the flowers on Lake’s grave had been planted whilst Race was alive, they hadn’t had the money for such delicate and expensive items.

“I did somethin’ good last night, ‘pparently if I hadn’t ‘ad paid fa the doctor, Rose wouldn’t ‘ave made it. And ‘m real ‘appy she’s ok, I just—” Spot words caught on a sob. “—I just wish we ‘ad ‘ad the money when ya were sick.”

Protected by the stone walls and far from the prying eyes of his opponents, Spot broke down.

There was no arm over his shoulders to comfort him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear what you think (and be truthful because have absolutely no idea if it is good or not - I have covid and frankly, thinking is hard right now). If you did like it, I am on the blue hell site (2amwritingaddictactuallywrites is my writing account and 2amwritingaddict is the place for random posts) so visit me on there.
> 
> Also, you know you’ve mess up your story when you write ‘Eventually Spot nodded like he knew something Race didn’t.’ and come back to it later only to wonder... wtf does Spot know??? I couldn’t figure it out so I had to cut the line :’(


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